Her Hands
by thevixendixon
Summary: Her hands are cold and rough. She wants to warm them with her own. His hands are just as rough, but they're not right. They're too warm. Future-ish. TabbyxAmaraxRoberto. Amara POV.


My contribution to the TabbyxAmara fanfic world (which is way too small by the way, hint hint). I don't know exactly how I feel about this one. A bit Strangers in Paradise but like the complete opposite. Anyways...

Disclaimer: I only own the story.

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Her hands are cold and rough. I want to warm them with my own. But really warming them at all would suffice. To do that for her. To do anything for her. But I wonder sometimes if then they wouldn't feel like her hands anymore. Wouldn't really _be_ her hands anymore. Because then they'd be tainted. Tainted by me.

They're still scarred from the times the little bombs she had been so proud of betrayed her. The palms with which she nurtured them. The marks are smaller now. Faint. But they're still there. And they look like they must've hurt like a bitch to get there.

I know this because Tabitha had touched me once. Back when I was still 'her girl.' Held my hand and pulled me along in all the fervor of the moment that comes to anything she touches.

But it was only for the moment. Because what did I do? I pulled away like I always do. My hands retreating back to their cozy little home in my pockets. My thoughts to their place where I told myself they didn't matter. That dark prison in the back of my mind where I used to keep all my thoughts like that.

I became awkward. I became stiff.

Did it bother her? Did she wonder why? Why this 'friend' of hers was so offended by her feel? Did my Tabby even notice?

I like to think she did. I know that she didn't.

God, it was such a quick moment. A quick fleeting moment a lifetime ago. My heart raced. The world was a blur. Would you believe that at first I couldn't even remember what she felt like? I just remembered the joy. The happiness. But I guess over the years I got greedy, because I wanted more. I found myself thinking about it. Again and again. Rebuilding it all piece by piece in my mind until it was spotless. Like Michelangelo's David. (Is that the one?) Just perfect. But I know they're not art. They don't require my wordy musings or my pitiful attempts at poetry.

They're just hands.

And there are plenty of other hands. There will always be other hands. The hands of my father as he hugs me away. Again. The little hands of the babies that remind me of the life I one day want to have. That stupid icy hand that pushed my face into the cake as a welcome-to-adulthood present on my eighteenth birthday.

And these hands here.

They're just as rough. But they're not right. They don't feel right. They're too warm. But what else would you expect from a man like him? A man called Sunspot.

They run down my sides. Though not much of a run as a glide. A gentle caress. All the while I think about how I should lose some weight. But not for these hands. I don't care much about these hands. But they're here aren't they? Resting right above my navel and below my breasts. Such gentlemanly hands. Their heat seeps into me. He seeps into me.

Because he is here when she is not.

He kisses me. At that vulnerable spot on my neck close to my collar bone. His lips are big and soft. I like that. He uses a lot of Chap Stick. Just for me. It leaves behind a pathway of sticky marks as he makes his way to my face. I _don't_ like that. But he's doing it for me. What did Tabitha ever do for me? He goes for my lips and misses as I turn away subtly but for the moment he's happy with the spot he's found at my cheek.

I'm not a cold lover. With a name like Magma, you can be sure of that. Warm in all the right places. But sometimes you get tired. Sometimes you just don't want to have to do it anymore. You go to bed every night hoping to wake up, but sometimes, you can't exactly remember why.

He gives up and collapses onto the bed next to me. Done already? Pitiful. He just lays there. I can feel him watching me. But I don't care. I'm thinking about her. Again.

How many years has it been since she's graced me with that wafty tropical island princess smell of her strawberry shampoo mixed with coconut conditioner? That personality even more dangerous and explosive than her powers. That quirky little habit of naming everything important she ever owned. How many years since she left this Godforsaken city and everything in it, including me, behind? Where is she now? Prostituting herself at some truck stop diner like she always thought she'd have to to scrape by or making it as the lead actress at some independent theater in L.A. like I always knew she would? Is she surviving in a world without me?

Does she care?

But then what right do I have to be angry? At her anyways. I'm always allowed to be angry at myself, and that's good because in the end it's my fault. For not saying anything. Not doing anything. For just letting it happen. The whole world's problems are my damn fault.

It's always the loud eccentric ones like her that are supposed to come out and just say these things you know. If she felt that way. If she knew _I_ felt that way. The quiet ones like me never do much of anything. They just sit around and let everyone else 'do' for them. Being led around by the wrist like helpless lost little children. They live lives of regret and hope it's not too obvious. But no one cares. They- we, are just background characters anyways.

Sigh. God.

Roberto puts a hand in my hair and strokes it softly. He worries sometimes. About me. I don't care. I pretend that nothing's happened; I have no desire to be touched right now. Not by him. Not by anyone but her.

"I love you."

It hits me like a brick. "What?" I sound so dazed.

"I love you."

A ton of bricks. And a loaded friggin' cement truck. Right in the teeth. I turn to face him. It's probably the first time all night that I've seen his face, looked into his eyes. Warm, caring, brown eyes. "Get out." It comes out so maliciously it surprises even me.

"What?"  
"I said get out."

I grab his pants and thrust them into his chest. He looks like such a sad hurt little puppy dog. It's priceless. I'm glad I was responsible. What's wrong with me?

He gets his pants up only one leg before I push him out my apartment door. I must look so powerful as he falls to the floor at my feet. Not that I feel any power though. Not in the least. I go back inside and grab everything I can find of his. There's not much. I throw it all down at him. His keys land on his bare chest. I hope they scratched him some. His phone just misses his head. Broken I'm sure. Damn.

And then? Slam.

"Amara?" he calls through the door over and over. I respond by dead bolting it. I secretly pray the neighbors call the cops on him but that might leave too much work for me to clean up in the morning. I take a quick dosage of my usual self-prescribed 'medications.' You know, glass of wine, shot of bourbon. Sometimes both. It works faster that way.

Right now, just a touch of vodka. I keep it hidden beneath my sink, mingling with my cleaning supplies, and save it for special occasions like this one. She introduced me to it.

And then I turn out the lights and lay fully awake on my couch. The bed has too much of him and for now, I'm done with him. He's a persistent little thing but finally I hear the heels scrape down my stairs. I hate how he does that. And then I'm alone for the night. Not the same alone I am every night without her, but a new completely absolutely alone.

But it's okay. He'll come back. Tomorrow I'll apologize. I'll tell him I was having an off day. He'll blame it on 'lady problems.' I'll tell him I love him too. Maybe I do. Maybe. I don't know. Either way, he'll come back. And we'll lie in bed together and he'll hold me close in his warm Brazilian arms until we both fall asleep.

Then someday we'll get married. We'll spend half our days on the beaches of Brazil and the other in the jungles of Nova Roma wasting away in our marital bliss. We'd never have to speak in English again. No more New York.

We'll have two beautiful fiery tan little children. Maybe three. The oldest would be a real brat and in her teenage years she'll try our patience to the point where we ask ourselves why we ever wanted such lives in the first place. We'll curse her with our hopes that in the future she have a little girl just like herself so she could see exactly what she put her loving parents through. Then one day she'll teach the boys how to ride a bike and they'd take turns riding on her back to the park and they'll smile and we'd know it was all worthwhile.

And like that we would grow old together. Someday when the sounds of our grandchildren are far behind us, we'll take comfort in knowing that they're there. We'll sit on the sands together. He'll put an arm around my shoulders and I'll lean into his chest. There he'll say it again. Whisper it into my ear.

_I love you._

And it'll be okay because by then I'll want to hear it. By then I'll be able to imagine that it's her voice that says it.

Just like now, when he touches me, it's her hand I hold.

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So?


End file.
